


and so on, and so on

by tanteitwopoint0



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen, more characters will be added as they get more relevant, only has ghost trick elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 03:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12856170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanteitwopoint0/pseuds/tanteitwopoint0
Summary: [[ MAJOR V3 SPOILERS; CONTAINS GHOST TRICK ELEMENTS ]]Amami Rantarou died, but he isn't quite gone.





	and so on, and so on

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is a project i've been considering for a while-- for v3 specifically a month, perhaps, but it's been a thing i've wanted to do with danganronpa in general since... 2014, honestly. 
> 
> ghost trick is a fun little short gem of a game, with some really fascinating death lore-- playing it / knowledge of it isn't exactly required to read, and the characters will be strictly be from v3, but it'd certainly help, especially when it comes to the rules of how exactly everything works. it's a wonderful game, with one of the most compelling mysteries i've ever seen in anything to date, so hopefully you might consider it...!
> 
> anyway, please enjoy!

Death comes swiftly, yet not entirely painlessly, and Amami Rantarou leaves the world of the living like a pinched candle flame— something, and then nothing, trailing a thin tendril of black, a choke of thick smoke.

His skull is cracked open like an egg, and the last thing he remembers is blinding pain, a flash of red, and—

…

( — _nothing_. )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

( _What is the end?_

_Is it an outcome? A resolution? Is it a finish? A completion?_

_Is it something else?_

_Maybe it’s the end of the world? Perhaps the world did end, once upon a time. Perhaps we’re all simply living in a dream. What if the world really is like the Matrix, and we’re all really actually being used to power our evil overlord machines? Who could tell, anyway?_

_Does it matter?_

_Imagine you take a string, hold it by its two ends. Which is the beginning? Which is the end?_

_Maybe the left is. Maybe the right is. Or you can flip it over and it can be the opposite. Or both. Or none. Or, you can just make a knot around your finger to remind yourself of… something. Then maybe it’s an end to some recollection, then?_

_But… I mean, a string is just a string, right? Nothing particularly philosophical about it. Maybe if you tie it up you can make some kinda metaphor about it, but who could tell?_

_Or you can tie up some loose ends and make a joke about how unfortunate it is that your own story couldn't quite meet the same fate, ahaha._

_Sorry, that wasn't funny._

_Hey, remember what he said, that one time? Back when the world ended. Or, well, when you thought it did. Didn’t you dream about something like that, once?_

_Life doesn’t need meaning. Life needs a purpose._

_Take that string. Hold it between your hands, just like that. See? Now that it’s yours, you can do whatever you want with it._

_Everything is as you make it, you know._

_Right, Amami-kun?_ )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

— then you awaken to a scream.

It isn’t yours; that much you can tell. It rips instead from the throat of a girl, dressed in white and pastel blue, a pinwheel of a ribbon spilling spirals of dark hair hovering just inches above the floor. She looks aghast; similar expressions are mirrored on the faces of the three accompanying her.

A blonde, with heavy rose eyes and face fading into a sheet white. A raven-haired boy, with a cap hiding his eyes but doing nothing to conceal the horror bleeding green into his face. Spikes of purple hair, paired with just as sharp violet eyes, wide and bright with terror.

Some part of you thinks you recognize them, but in the haze of your mind no names come up; simply a ghost of deja vu, some muted, muffled bells, like water slipping neatly between your fingers.

The world around you swims blearily, as if in a haze. Everything feels muted, grayer, like they were blanketed thick with fog; the crowd around you, every single one of your thoughts, all the memories you try to drag up but to no avail, drop away from your hands like stones. Everything you try to remember refuses, almost stubbornly, to return to you, and it's like you've been hit on the head, but you feel— you feel _nothing_ , simply the haze, the sheets of confusion and exhaustion cocooning thick around your mind.

You think that you're taking too long to wake up, that, maybe, something is wrong. You consider returning back to sleep but— no, you can't. Not that you don’t want to. You literally— _can’t_.

_What's happening?_

The question simply ricochets within the hollow of your skull,  providing nothing but the echos of your own desperate voice, muffled by the fog.  Perhaps— you sense something more, something further, some kind of answers lying just beyond. But you’re too tired to grasp tighter, to grasp farther; you give up quickly, save the thought for another time. For, clearly— there are other things to attend to.

That being, the source of their fear. That's the easiest of the thousands upon thousands of questions piling up in your mind.  You think you may know the answer to this one, too, but this time simply looking is all you need to get the answer.

Feeling a note of curiosity buzzing between your lips, your gaze flickers over, and—

( _PAIN— BLINDING PAIN— A FLICKER OF A CANDLE— SOMETHING AND THEN NOTHING— CRACKED LIKE AN EGG— RED RED RED REDREDRE—_ )

— it dissolves on your tongue.

…oh.

Well.

It hits you like a train. Memories and thoughts and feelings _flood_ your mind, and you find yourself gasping as everything is literally shoved into your consciousness, and everything becomes blindingly clear.

Your name is Amami Rantarou, and you’d died, your skull cracked open like an egg.

Your name is Amami Rantarou, and you’re staring at your own bloody corpse.

Your name is Amami Rantarou, and you… are…

… _dead_?

You swim in uncertainty, confusion, absolute bafflement and disbelief. There are many things you are uncertain of— ( _where am i? what’s going on? what are the others doing here? what’s happening?_ what’s happening _?_ ) — but one thing seems particularly absolute.

You are dead.

It’s a fact. You’re certain of it. You don’t know why, but— it’s _something_ , nothing more an absolute truth, and in the restlessness of your mind, as morbid as said truth is, it seems like an anchor. Something secure. Nothing makes sense, but you can be sure of that one very thing.

You are dead.

You were killed, actually. That’s another certainty; you pull that one next right behind, like beads on a string. Right; the memories trickle in slowly, individually. That's okay. You're not sure your can handle them, otherwise, anyway. So you let them plunk in, one by one, study them quietly, carefully, obsessively. You were killed. _Here_. The… library, right? There’s the dust of books hanging thin in the air, the dark woods of bookshelves stacked against the wall. It’s the first thing you saw upon awakening, next to the faces filled with horror; and it was the last thing you saw before you… died.

Killed. _Murdered_.

The thought sends a shiver down your spine.

Alright, you were killed. How? That sends a flash of pain; the memory of your death. The moment you were killed. You remember being hit, your skull denting in, your brain being crushed, but not— who. What. How. _Why_. You’d seen a shot put ball fall just before your eyes, but— no, that couldn’t be it. Your eyes had followed it as it dropped, almost pathetically, rolled to your feet and nudged gently at your toes.

It was cute. Kind of. It masks the fear you’d felt, at least, the sudden coldness that had swept near immediately over your entire being when you startled the first time, seeing something so heavy falling just inches away from your face, so close to the delicate bone of your head. The thought that someone had probably just literally attempted murder on you crossed your mind, of course, but that was swiftly cut off with—

… right.

You look at the shot put ball, covered in blood, looking almost like paint. That’s the one that killed you, right? But— no. Something sharp stabs at your thoughts. That’s not the one that’d fallen then, the one that’d poked at your feet. It was a different one; this ball is streaked with blood— _your blood_ — but the other had been… fuzzy, almost, invisible threads clinging to its silver surface, and you’d been _staring_ at it when you’d died.

This wasn’t the one that’d fallen in front of your eyes. You’d been looking right at it, had felt confused, looked briefly at your perk Monopad before looking up—

Wait.

 _Monopad_?

You’re suddenly surged with panic, and you look around. _Where is it?_ That was supposed to be a secret. You’d held onto it near religiously, before you’d died. It was the key, after all— the secrets locked within its screen were too powerful, valuable. You’d desperately kept it from the others; you couldn’t trust them. You’ve always loved people; you loved your classmates, every single one of them. Perhaps you hadn’t known them all, for very long— but they deserved to be protected. They didn’t deserve this hell of the game.

But you didn’t trust any of them. You _couldn’t_.

Not even Akamatsu, who offered to talk to you, but you appreciate her immensely, nonetheless. She’s keeping everyone together— that was the most important thing. You couldn’t be that foundation for them, not properly; you’re glad she’s filling in the spot instead, absolutely wonderfully, near perfectly. You’re grateful for her, even now; she seems to still be taking charge, even with the tragedy of your own death haunting all of them.

But you couldn’t trust her. You couldn’t trust any of them. Not even your own memories— disjointed and bleary; you still can’t even recall your talent, even here, even now, only bleary pictures of destruction, echoes of something called the _Super High School Level Hunt_.

Borderline ridiculous, but certainly ominous. You’d repeat them yourself, echoed what you’d seen, heard, hoped someone would echo something back.

But—

Nothing. No one. But… that was fine. Because— you at least had yourself, and the Monopad.

But—

 _Where is it_?

You try to sift rapidly, desperately through your memories— you’re absolutely certain that you’d held onto it before you’d died. The entire last minutes of your life, from the moment you pulled open the back door to the library, to the moment you’d felt your skull cave in, you were holding it. And yet…

It isn’t here.

Did you drop it? Is it hiding somewhere?

Was it _taken_?

The last possibility sends ice down your spine, and again you try to remember what the _hell_ could’ve happened. _C’mon, c’mon,_ c’mon _…_

Nothing’s helping you there, though, and no memory you retrieve sheds more light on the truth as it does simply give your mind just more unnecessary ache, and so with a note of frustration you push that thought aside, pull yourself instead into the present. Right— that was happening, wasn't it? Chabashira had screamed, now you remember— she’s the girl with the pigtails. The blonde is Akamatsu. The raven-haired boy is Saihara. And Momota—

It’s at that moment more people burst into the library— they must’ve heard Chabashira’s scream. As they file in, their names graze over your thoughts, thin and sharp but certain and utterly absolute. _Gokuhara_. _Angie_. _Harukawa_. _Yumeno_.

Screams. The horror filled expression spreads over some of the newcomers, like a contagious disease, floating in the air, hanging thick in the heaviness above your corpse. They talk, more, but your head starts to hurt, more; you pick up only some of what they discuss. You. Death. The ringleader… right, you were after them, weren’t you? That’s why you’d risked, that’s why you’d came, that’s why you’d…

Everything fades into the background. You died, you died, you died. That was the cold, hard, truth, and your brain beats it into you ad nauseam, and you’re sure— in the past few minutes since you’ve awakened, your brain has screamed nothing else.

 _You died, you died you died._ That was the truth— there was no denying it.

_You died, you died you died._

Of course you did. You’d felt the strike, the pain, the flash of light that faded just as instantly to nothing.

_You died, you died you died._

That was indisputable. Completely undeniable. And yet—

( _and everything disappears._ )

— how are you still

 _here_?

( _… and your mind is as silent as the monitors standing over your grave._ )

* * *

 

Most have left the library; Saihara and Akamatsu and Toujou and Hoshi all stay behind, eyes darting, gazes wary. You only barely pick up on their conversations; it seems that no one claimed the first blood perk.

Some part of you feels disappointment, at that; another truth would’ve been helpful, to know who’d killed you. Know who must’ve stolen the Monopad, dared to bring its secret to eyes whose hands may use the information for motives less than virtuous. It's not reassuring, of course— knowing that your killer is one of the other fifteen students left behind leaves you with enough dread already, and that’s not even considering how they’re very likely the ringleader themselves, considering the disappearance of your Monopad— but the truth is all you have. You’re desperate.

But… that was fine. They’d gone off to investigate, and those still behind stand quietly a ways from each other, eyes flickering and thick with caution; only Saihara and Akamatsu dare to approach the others, and interrogate the other two. Their voices are quiet, muted, though, only further muffled easily by the books and wood, and so you’re left simply with your own dead body and all your thoughts.

Not the best companions, but— you make the best of it. After all…

You have questions.

Because you’re dead. And yet, you’re still _here_.

The afterlife wasn’t quite something you’d ever considered, much, in your walking, living hours; perhaps the killing game had resurfaced the thought more often than it usually would, as would be expected, but— even then you’d assumed you’d be… elsewhere. Not _here_. You didn’t believe in a heaven or hell, not exactly, but you never would've have imagined that you’d be able to witness your own bleeding corpse, to see the faces of all who saw it displayed before their eyes.

You wouldn’t have imagined that you’d still be _here_ , somehow— perhaps without lungs breathing, perhaps without heart beating, but your thoughts are still yours and you can _sense_ , everything, still, somehow. The sight of their anxiety. The sounds of their suspicion. The smell of their fear. The taste and feel of apprehension lingering heavy in the air, even after they’d all left— you were supposed to be _gone_ , and yet, you’re…

… here.

But— you have time. You think. It’s strange; now that you’re dead, you realize it isn’t… so bad. Sure, perhaps you were _dead_ , perhaps the others can’t _see_ you, it seems, perhaps you haven’t moved at all— but the sense of urgency that’d hung like a guillotine over your neck is suddenly… gone. The true poison of the killing game— the anxiety that’d caged every single one of your hearts, gripped it tighter and tighter these last forty-eight hours— is… _gone_ , and the relief you feel is astronomical. It almost makes dying seem worth it, especially now as you realize how painless _here_ is.

Suddenly, you have time. Suddenly, no one is watching. Suddenly, you’re finally, _finally_ out of the ringleader’s grip, and…

you have time.

 _For what?_ you question yourself, and you chew at the inside of your cheek— _ghost cheek? hypothetical cheek?_ — and look around again, assessing your situation— not very different from the others investigating your death, except this time you’re finding much more than clues to your killer.

First. Where? That doesn’t take very long to answer— simply a rechecking of everything you’re already aware of, and you’re… in your own corpse. Well, that’s to be expected. But— no, you’re not looking from your eyes. Your corpse’s eyes, that is. It’s more as if— you’re a ghost hovering within your own core, looking up at the rest of the world, soul still latched to some invisible spot right beneath your heart, like an anchor.

An anchor. That… feels familiar. You’ve dealt with them often, before; they kept the boat secure, lodged into the sand beneath the water, weight dropping almost silently as the hull struck land.

… dropping. As in, fall. The word strikes something strange in your mind. You feel anchored, secured to your corpse, but… no, not _permanently_. You feel stuck, but not exactly _trapped_ , not quite indefinitely stagnant. Instead— it’s like the boat, again. The anchor keeps it fast, but never exactly kept it there forever. Boats were meant to move; they were meant to _travel_.

And…

That’s you, too, isn’t it? You were never meant to stay in one place. You were never meant to stay stuck— the walls of this cage gave you a deeper sense of entrapment, of claustrophobia: you— you can’t remember, but you’ve always, always loved to discover. To explore.

To _travel_.

Something surges within you. Determination. Conviction. _I can’t stay here_. If your destiny was to stay trapped in your own corpse, that was a fate worse than death. _That_ was a fitting hell. But— _no_. You can’t go yet. You’re restless. You need to _go_.

You feel your soul wrestle, within your own corpse, take a deep breath. This can’t be all that's left. Certainly— _absolutely_ — there should be more. There _is_ more. All you have to do is just—

You pull the chains.

You drop the anchor.

And, suddenly—

_The world is washed in green._

“ _Fuck_ —!”

You— hadn’t expected that. The gasp is yours, this time, tearing suddenly and abruptly through your throat, leaving you wide eyed. ( _A ghost of one, technica— actually, you know what, nevermind._ ) Everything’s _green_ , all varying shades of pale lime and dark leaves, and it’s as if you’ve suddenly jammed a movie reel, jerked back violently on the reigns of time itself, because it’s as if the world’s suddenly _frozen_ in green ice, cold and absolutely unmoving.

Everything’s stopped. Akamatsu and Saihara’s voices, once quiet, just barely audible murmurs, had cut off into absolute silence. Even the sound of life itself has stopped completely, and the utter silence of the world around you is utterly deafening.

Startled, surprised, you let go—

 _you tug back the anchor_ —

and everything comes back to normal.

Akamatsu’s and Saihara’s voices. Toujou’s muffled, quiet, curt answer. The hum of life, of moving time, the buzz of the air conditioner cycling air merrily on as if nothing’s happened. It’s as if you’ve simply tapped play, and the world just… chugs on. As if you hadn’t suddenly stopped everything.

You stare. If you were still living, you’re sure you would’ve died for how long you hold your breath, just from gawking at the world.

They’re talking to Hoshi now, but you barely pay attention. It takes you a moment, but you’re finally able to pull yourself back from your stupor, into vaguely coherent thoughts, again.

Alright. Stopping time. Is that… a ghost thing?

… now that you think about it, it really isn’t all that surprising, after what’s already happened.

Huh. You stare for a moment, consider going back. Some small part of you is nervous. Understandably. You liked greenery as much as the next person— well, perhaps a little more; you’ve always been rather fond of nature— but that was almost… too much. But staying here won’t do anything, and, anyway, you’ve built your life on risks.

Besides, there was nothing particularly threatening about the green, at least not immediately. At least none you could sense. It was just… strange, _abnormal_ , but the game was enough of that already.

And you can’t stay here. You can’t stop here.

You purse your lips, try to bring your thoughts back. _The anchor… the anchor—_

And you’re back to green.

Okay.

You breath, gently moisten your lips. Fine. Alright, this works. Feeling just a buzz of anxiety hovering in your throat, it’s swiftly overwhelmed and replaced with a sharp curiosity as you gather your bearings and inspect your surroundings, once again, paying a bit more attention than before. They’re not very different; it’s practically the same thing, save for the green ( _as you’ve already noticed_ ), and save for…

Cores.

That’s the first word that pops into your mind, when you notice the various glowing spheres scattered throughout the library, fixed in the centers of various different yet specific objects within the room. Some of the books. The cameras. Something perched upon the moving bookcase— _is that a sensor?_ — and the globe sitting at the edge of a shelf.

It's the word that _sticks_ , as you peer down and inspect yourself yet again— _it really_ is _like a core_ , you realize, remembering it's the first word you dubbed it, the place your soul was stuck: because as it turns out, there's another one, right there beneath your heart, the very thing your soul is attached to.

 _Anchored_ to.

And anchors aren’t permanent. Simply temporary. Meant to keep you in place for a moment, but nothing more.

You lift your head, blink; see the camera that captured the last moments of your life with a flash, face splattered with your blood— it’s just a little ways off from where you are, and there’s a core, right in the middle of it.

You wonder— _perhaps_ …?

You hold your breath, and reach out towards the camera, tentatively. Teeter upon your corpse’s core, and feel your soul stretched, elongated—

And suddenly you’re in the camera.

In. As in, the camera’s own core. Suddenly you find yourself staring down at your body, from within the bookshelf, teleported abruptly to a completely different location.  _Well, that's pretty new_. You're not complaining, though; with an almost excited smile, you glance at the other cores around you— experiment, for a moment, and see that your reach is about four meters. You don't know if that's impressive or not; you decide it is. 

You flip back between the time-frozen green world—  _ghost world?_ you think, vaguely, thinking it appropriate— and the world of the living a few times; the cores are invisible, in the living, and reaching out does nothing, though when you wiggle your soul in the camera, trying to see if you can reach any other cores, the camera suddenly flashes again and the four in the room all startle and turn towards you, all with varying degrees of shock and terror displayed on their faces, Akamatsu's expression paling  _drastically_ to an almost impressive white.

You freeze, even though you've figured out at this point easily that they can't see you. Force of habit, you suppose. You keep still nonetheless, though, and once they all resume their conversations, this time their with a healthy heaping of paranoia, concern, topics briefly skittering the possibility of ghosts and paranormal activity (  _and, well, they're not exactly wrong_ ) you return to your own personal experimenting.

So— you mentally count it out on your fingers.

First, there's a weird ghost world that stops time next to the world of the living; you can apparently switch between them at will.

Second, there are cores. You can apparently travel between them, but only in the ghost world, and not everything has a core. What determines it seems to be kinda random.

Third, you can control objects in the living world, sorta. You'll have to do a bit more experimentation on that one.

You count each one, nod approvingly. Fine— that works. It's all not very much, all things considered, being only three points, but you'd like to think you've made quite a lot of progress. Dead for a few minutes— you've kind of lost count, there, on the specifics— but you've already managed to find out some, figure out a lot. Pretty good for a dead guy, huh?

You smile wryly at yourself for that. 

Now— what to?

Well, that wasn't very hard. You're not sure if your time as a ghost is indefinite or what, but you assume you're better safe than sorry. You've accepted death as a possibility long, long ago; that was the only thing you could do, in this kind of situation. Acceptance, of a sort, was better than outright denial. Denial held you back. Denial kept you at bay, blinded your own vision, held back your own hands. But once you got past that—

Everything else could start.

And this is better. Much better. You're still _here_ , and you've got powers, somehow, and... you could do something. Maybe. You can  _try_ , certainly, and you feel a surge of responsibility. You're not sure what you can do, exactly, but you're smart. Intuitive enough. You're sure that with enough time and resources, however you'll gather them, that you'll somehow find a way to help the others. Doing nothing when you could be doing  _something_ has never been something you could really handle, and you're capable of  _things_ and... things should change. Things can always change.

Your plans to go after the ringleader hasn't stopped. Simply changed. You'd have to approach things differently, of course— not having a body and being dead clearly shifts the board for you— but it's not as if you're completely helpless. With your powers comes untapped possibilities, and you're determined to explore them, to use them.

All that's left, really, is to start.

And the answer comes to you near immediately— the trial.

They'll find something out— you'll find something out. You'd help out with the investigation, but you're not exactly keen on scaring anymore classmates, not to mention you're rather fuzzy on the details yourself. For now it's best to gather information, you decide— learn, stay quiet, make a plan from there.

It sounds good, and you smile, almost excited at how easily everything's coming together. With a smile, you flip easily into the ghost world and dart through a few cores towards the others before— oh, huh, is that a core in Saihara's hat...? You blink at it; well, that's convenient. But, well, it's not like you're complaining. 

You easily latch onto it, flip the switch back into the world, just as he and Akamatsu make their way out of the library, determined to find more clues.

And, with your own soul burning fiercely with the same resolve, you go with them.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry for the fuck ton of exposition..... more chapters shall. hopefully. come soon


End file.
